


Fly Me To The Moon

by nightfalltwen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Potions Accident, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightfalltwen/pseuds/nightfalltwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wheeze certainly wasn't supposed to cause <i>that</i> kind of reaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly Me To The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Daily Deviant post! I am very excited to be a part of the community and I hope this fic is a good debut. A special thank you goes to my beta **cryptaknight** without whom I would usually crash and burn. And an extra big thank you to the mods for allowing me to join Daily Deviant. I'm so looking forward to stretching my boundaries with everyone. :D Title, of course, is the song written by Bart Howard in 1954. Written for the May Daily Deviant submission.

*@*@*@*@*

The day starts out so promising and terribly normal for 93 Diagon Alley. The only notable thing that happens in the morning is the pygmy puffs getting themselves into the Peruvian darkness powder. And that in itself isn't particularly out of place as they tend to get into some kind of mischief on a weekly basis. Not that anyone seems to blame the puffs. They've been raised by a Weasley after all. On the bright side, it only takes Verity and Lavender about an hour and a half to find them this time.

When lunchtime rolls around, Lavender leaves Verity looking after some customers and heads to the basement lab to ask George what he wants to eat. She pushes the heavy wooden door open but, before she even has a chance to speak, there is a loud bang and she is drenched in some kind of blue, viscous fluid. It slides down her head and drips onto her shoulders. A shudder creeps up her spine as some of it gets into her ears.

"George Weasley, if you weren't the one signing my paycheques, I'd kill you," Lavender snarls.

George stares at her, his face smudged with ink and there is a tick at the corner of his mouth as if he is trying to keep himself from laughing. He hops over the workbench and grabs a towel, holding it out to her.

"Sorry," he says, doing his best attempt to look sheepish and failing rather miserably as that amused tick is still catching at the side of his mouth. "I should have put a sign out saying I was experimenting."

"You think?" Lavender says, muffled from behind the towel. "You know I'd be a little more forgiving if this was the first time. You _know_ you're supposed to put a warning out. Last time I had tail feathers for three days!"

"It was a nice tail, though," George quips with that infuriating laugh in his voice, dodging the towel-turned-weapon. "I sign the paycheques, remember."

With a frustrated growl, Lavender stomps out of the lab and goes straight to the staff loo, expecting to find her hair a blue mess and her blouse stained beyond all recognition. But between the lab and the loo, the potion has turned clear and all marks have disappeared. Her hair looks as it did before she went down to the lab. 

This, of course, means only one thing. She's absorbed whatever it was that hit her.

Without any shame whatsoever, Lavender turns, hikes up her skirt and tugs down her knickers checking her bum in the mirror for feathers.

Satisfied that nothing is growing out of her skin, Lavender smoothes down her clothes. She stands in front of the mirror for a little while longer, just to be sure that she's not going to suddenly grow horns out of her forehead or elephant ears in place of her own very normal-looking lobes. When she returns to the front, she's surprised to see Verity gone and George manning the till. He gives her a little salute and points to a pair of girls by the skiving snack boxes.

"She went to get sandwiches," George says while Lavender passes behind him, heading for the new customers. 

The rest of the day moves along without much incident. It gets busy enough in the shop that George doesn't return to the lab after Verity returns. They rotate their lunches, help the patrons and when the shop closes George tells Verity and Lavender that they can go, stating that he'll set the cleaning spells to pick up all the strewn about merchandise.

Lavender goes into the back to get her handbag. When she returns, there are brooms sweeping across the floor and items walking themselves back to the correct shelves. Watching the room self clean is actually a bit of a treat and she pauses briefly, forgetting for a moment that she is actually still a little cross with George.

"You seem no worse for wear," he says, sliding up behind her and putting his hand on her waist. "No feathers at least."

Lavender turns to smack him but finds her hand caught and her fingers clasped in his. Her mouth makes a little 'o' of surprise as he reaches past her with his free hand and flicks a finger at the wireless sitting on the counter. George gives her a wide smile and twirls her out. Impromptu dancing is not a surprise; it happens often and neither her, nor Verity, put a stop to it because they both like seeing him happy. Happy moments are precious.

"I really am sorry about the lab," he says earnestly.

Lavender gives up on any thought of an early escape from the shop. She raises her eyebrows at him. "What did I end up getting all over me?"

"It's supposed to be a wheeze that turns all your movements into musical sound," he explains and twirls her again. "Bells and whistles and cymbals whenever you walk. Since you're not making any noise, I doubt it's a successful experiment just yet."

The advertising on the wireless comes to a close and the next set of songs start up.

She's always been a fan of music and dancing. It is freeing and speaks to something creative inside of her that she has never been able to truly quantify. But something is different this time. The beat of the first song seems to throb up her legs and the melody ripples across her skin like water. Her stomach flutters and her hand grips tightly at George's fingers. When he pulls her closer, she can't help herself. The hand she'd been resting against his shoulder moves until she's combing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. 

"I've always liked your hair," she says softly, the chorus of the song making her heartbeat race along with it.

"I seem to recall you calling it a ridiculous mop of ginger that you couldn't stand in the slightest," he replies and she feels his voice vibrate against her forehead, her head having somehow tucked under his chin. "Are you alright?" His voice is less laughter and much thicker.

Lavender pinches her eyes shut, the song moving into the bridge and her stomach dropping as if she has climbed onto a lift headed for the top of the tallest building. As the music fades, she seems to be able to catch ahold of herself and realises that her hips are fitted against his, undulating in such a way that she is quite certain he is sporting a raging hard-on and her hand is tangled up in his hair, pulling him ever so much closer. It dawns on her that this is George. The one whom she _just_ pointed out signs her pay cheques. Her boss. Leaping back, with a shriek of surprise, she almost sends a floating trash bin careening across the room.

Lavender spares no time for apologies. She just gives George a horrified look and vanishes from sight.

*****

When she returns to work the next day, Lavender does her best to avoid George. This proves to be difficult because he stays in the shop, helping customers, all day. She doesn't know if this is on purpose or because he's giving his inventions a break. She doesn't stick around to ask. Instead she keeps to the and takes inventory of the merchandise. It's quiet and no one comes to get her to help up front.

But it's boring.

Late in the afternoon, she's in the middle of pushing a box of puking pastilles back onto the shelf when she hears the door open.

"I'll be right there," she calls out. Flicking her wand at the rest of the supplies, she watches as everything returns to its rightful place. 

No one stands at the door as she approaches and with a slight frown, Lavender supposes it was a customer who had mistakenly opened it. She moves to push it closed, but pauses tilting her head. Over the din of the customers, over the rattle of the register, she can hear the faint strains of music from the overhead speaker. It's a song she recognises, but doesn't know the words to. He's some crooner; the male equivalent of Celestina Warbeck.

Lavender's knees press together. She turns and leans against the wall, her skin prickling with something she can't describe. The silky lyrics tangle around her feet and roll up her legs in perfect three-quarter time, pausing at her knees during a soft instrumental verse before climbing higher during a crescendo.

She can't help herself. She knows it's wrong; she's at work for god's sake. But there is a stronger urge that is overriding all sense of propriety, sending her hand under her skirt and beneath her knickers. It's all music and thrills and she has never known herself to be so _wet_ so suddenly. Her index finger flicks across her clit in time with the music and she turns her head to bite into her sleeve to keep from groaning.

It doesn't take long. She was almost at the edge before she'd even touched herself and it's only moments later that her whole body is shaking as she comes in a mixture of trumpets and cymbals and delicate crooning lyrics.

The click of the door snags her back into the present moment, the music now cut off. Lavender gives her head a shake and realises she's now sitting on the floor. She can't remember the moment when it happened, perhaps when she'd thrust two fingers inside of herself, but her knees had given way and she'd slid to the floor. Her blood is still pulsing through her veins, her hand between her legs and standing above her is the very person she'd planned to avoid all day. There's no place to flee; her wand just out of reach.

George opens his mouth to speak.

At the same time, Lavender bursts into tears.

*****

Up in his room above the shop, George presses a cup into her hands. He's shooed out the customers and closed up the shop early so that it is just the two of them in the building. Lavender sniffles and wipes her eyes against the sleeve of her blouse before taking a large gulp. She is surprised to find that he's only given her a cup of warm milk instead of the Firewhisky she'd expected. It's pleasantly spiced with something that she cannot place. She drains the mug and lets the warmth sit in her belly, though she isn't quite sure that she's comforted by it.

George whisks away the finished beverage, sitting across from her on a little stool.

"Am I going to be like this forever?" she asks, expecting him to have the answer. She's sussed out for herself that it's the wheeze, though she had thought it would have worn off long before now.

"I don't think so," George says, but his tone is uncertain.

"You don't think?!" Lavender's voice goes high and thin at the end of her question.

"Well... it was one of Fred's ideas," he says, his lips twisting in a frown that doesn't quite fit on his cheerful face. "I doubt he factored in someone who had the same kind of connection to werewolves like Bill does. Might be what made it different for you."

Lavender grabs the nearest thing to her, a pillow, and hits him with it. "I _told_ you to put signs on the door so people wouldn't walk in on you!" She punctuates the lecture with another few hits before he grabs the pillow and gently tugs it from her. "What happens if it doesn't wear off? How am I supposed to manage? I'll have to give notice. I can't just excuse myself from customers to frig myself in the back storeroom, George."

He tilts his head, considering what she's just said and Lavender can feel her face go hot with embarrassment and anger. Suddenly she wishes she had her wand and that she'd been a better study of the Avis charm so she could send angry canaries at his head a la Hermione Granger. She settles for crossing her arms tightly across her chest and glowering at him.

"You get that image out of your head right now," she says irritably. "You're not allowed to be amused by this!"

George puts up his hands in surrender. "Can't help what the little brain thinks about sometimes." He stands up and goes over to the dresser. When he returns he has a wireless in his hands, the cord strung across the room.

Lavender backs up on the bed. "George don't you dare."

He sets the wireless on the table beside her. "I wouldn't." He gives her a pointed look. "But I think you might want to." Before she can reply, he continues. "That way it's under your control. You're going to have to see how long this will affect you. The only way you're going to know that is to listen to music until it stops affecting you."

She eyes the wireless warily for a long time before looking up at him and she's loathe to admit that he has a point. Listening to music to see if the wheeze does indeed wear off seems to be her only way out. To her surprise, George gathers up a blanket and leaves her alone to her own devices. It doesn't escape her notice that she could easily leave and go home, but she knows that he's trying to help. So she stays where she is.

*****

"George," she says, hours later, knocking on the other door across the hall.

He cracks it open and looks at her. "Has it worn off?"

Lavender doesn't answer, but gestures for him to follow her back into his actual room. "I've actually been thinking."

She points at the bed and it takes him a moment to understand that she wants him to sit, which he does. She finds herself a little satisfied at the confusion on his face when she climbs onto his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. It isn't until she leans over and flicks the switch to the wireless, the sound of the set of advertisements filling the room, does he put his hands to her waist.

"Pretty girl sitting on my lap isn't something I normally complain about..." he starts.

Lavender puts her hands to his mouth, cutting him off. "Then don't." She takes a breath as a short weather break starts instead of the next set of songs. "This is your fault after all. So you're going to help me get through whatever it is that I'm going to have to get through."

 

"So you're using me?" There is amusement in his question and he doesn't sound terribly put off by the idea.

Men.

"I am," she replies lightly, waiting for the host to stop talking about the impending rainstorm and for the next set to begin. 

When it does, there's almost no reaction from her and Lavender almost wants to laugh because she's perched herself on George's lap expecting something to happen. But her relief is short-lived because he does something with his hands at her waist and the song follows his touch, the dancing melody shivering up her spine and curling over her shoulders. Lavender leans into it and soon finds herself leaning into his touch which has moved from her waist and along her ribs.

"You're not taking advantage of me," she says.

"And you're under the influence of a potion," his voice is thick, but she notices that he doesn't stop and that his hands are moving under her blouse and up to her breasts. "Kind of feels like I am."

"I can do this by myself if you'd rather not help me," she says, tugging off her own shirt and bra before pulling at his t-shirt. 

Her skin feels as if it is humming along with the music, waves of sensation travelling down her chest and along her stomach to settle between her legs. Lavender leans closer to him, her breasts pressing against his hands. She reaches down and with a smile she finds his cock, hard and straining beneath his jeans. The sound that he makes when she strokes it through the fabric is rather thrilling. Lavender leans closer and presses her mouth to his ear.

"I suspect that you'd actually rather stay."

George doesn't answer her. He also doesn't let her have full control of all of this like she thought that he would. Soon Lavender is on her back, skirt and knickers discarded to the floor. George is between her thighs, without his trousers or his shorts. He looks at her like she's the only thing in the world that he wants. It both frightens her and thrills her and she can't quite tell if this need to have him bear her down into the mattress is the music or her own desire.

Her hands sweep down over his bare shoulders and she decides that it doesn't quite matter at that particular moment. Reaching down, he teases his cock across her clit until the needy plea tumbles from her lips.

"Now, George," she says, squirming at the touch. "Please... I want..."

"Do you?" He whispers, sounding just as strained as she feels. "Do you really? Or is it just the music?"

Her hands slide down to clench at his arse, fingers digging into the flesh. "Yes. You. Yes I've always... for ages now," she says, not knowing where the confession came from but knowing it is absolutely and one hundred percent true.

She makes to say something else, but he thrusts his cock into her and all that manages to bubble from her lips is a strangled sort of noise. He fills her so completely, moving in perfect time with the song in her head. She isn't sure if it's the same song on the wireless, nor does she care because her own song is so, so much better. George is so, so much better.

Wrapping her legs around his hips, she lets him set the beat and the speed, maybe even the melody. It's slow and then fast and has no sense of measure to it. It's just his body moving against hers as if it was always meant to sing this way. When she comes it's not desperate or screaming, but a wave of sensation that flutters through her entire body in a soft decrescendo. She only barely notices him pulling away and coming across her belly in warm spurts.

It's a little bit later, after he's cleaned them both and they're sprawled on his bed that she realises how quiet the room is.

She lifts her head. "No music?" she asks with a smile. "Don't tell me you're too tired..."

"I turned it off," he says, tucking an arm behind his head.

She thinks for a moment, not remembering him moving once he'd spread out on his back. Then she tries to think what the last song was that she heard, but she can't recall. She pushes herself up on her elbows.    
"When?"

George smiles. "About when you tugged off my jeans. You didn't stop once the music was gone..." He reaches over and switches on the wireless again.

This time when the music starts there really is no reaction. Lavender even has a hard time not cringing at the syrupy lyrics that come sliding out of the speakers. She waits for almost the whole length of the song to see if anything happens. When nothing does, she smiles glad to have control of herself again.

"But..." He says, sweeping his fingertips over her breasts and down her stomach. "If you think we ought to try again. Just in case. I'm more than willing to help."

She swats at him. "I'll bet you are."

Then he gives her what is quite possibly the corniest smile she has ever come across. "We make beautiful music together, sweetheart," he quips.

Lavender bursts out laughing and prods him in the ribs before settling against his shoulder. "That was terrible. Don't you _ever_ say that to me again, George Weasley. Never again."


End file.
